


The Death Sweat Suits Me; A Death Threat Provides A Thrill

by lzrd



Category: Hotline Miami (Video Games)
Genre: Body Worship, Coming In Pants, Dry Humping, Fluff and Angst, Hawaiian Conflict Era, Kissing, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Two Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 02:40:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7740247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lzrd/pseuds/lzrd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Intimacy in anxiety</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Death Sweat Suits Me

**Author's Note:**

> title's from [ready to die by the unicorns](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nD0pP7J-084)  
> the first part of this was posted to tumblr, and i meant to do a part two forever ago-- and now i am! the first part is actually cleaned up a lot from the original post tbh

It was another long night on watch together, boundaries melting between the two of them as the hours ticked by.

Jacket had worked his way across the distance between them with every cigarette, scooting closer every time Beard offered his lighter, and returning it, slyly, every time. He really wasn't one for subterfuge, but with every inch that was eaten up between them, he couldn't say he wasn't a little pleased it had worked out, deep down.

Beard, for his part, didn’t seem to notice, focused as he was in worrying his dog tags in thought.

Neither of them could afford distractions, not with so much on the line. But… but, it was a cool night, the moon hanging full and bright, casting both of their faces in dramatic, gaunt relief like matching death masks, a portrait of what could be to come if the higher ups would have their say. They were both feeling the creep of inevitability, the ill will from ally and enemy alike hanging over them, and Jacket couldn’t take it anymore.

He turned towards him for the first time that night and snared his fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck ( _gently, gently it’s not a war zone in the space between the two of you_ ) to pull him face to face. As his head turned, the glare off of his glasses slid away, revealing the same tired, sunken eyes he had mapped out in other melting, tenuous moments like this one.

The corner of Beard’s mouth tasted like sweat, and with a little tooth to his bottom lip, he opened up. He was pliant, mouth slack, patiently stroking his thumb across Jacket’s collar bone, waiting to see how he would proceed. There was a familiarity in Beard's look, a slight quirk of his mouth even though he was still so placid. His hand was the only thing moving, like he was trying to comfort him for something he hadn't even consciously expressed yet.

All the plans for rough makeouts tumbled out of his head, remembering his softness, and like a snapped rubber band he sank into him, pressing kisses to every inch of his jaw, nuzzling into his scruff.

His support beam moved then, pulling him up to bump their foreheads together.

The sound of the others shifting around in the barracks, soon to be awake, reached them and knowing this would be the last kiss of the night, they crowded together.

It was the product of the uncertainty and desperation of the time they had together, their mouths meeting like they were tying their affection and fears together between them. It was slow going, as Beard made sure to maintain the pace even as Jacket’s desperation caught up to him and he tried to convey every emotion at once. It was sweet, their tongues moving together still clumsily after all this time.

They ran out of breath all too soon, and the ache in their lungs was matched by the ache in their chests as they separated.

As the others filtered out to start the day, they remained next to each other, turning together to watch the moon slide behind the treeline.


	2. A Death Threat Provides A Thrill

There's sweat rolling down his back, someone elses' blood rolling down his forearm, and Jacket can't find Beard anywhere.

The others are at the second location already to finish up without them with time of the essence, so it's just up to him to sweep the area to find their Lieutenant. To find his... his Beard. Mouth dry, chest burning with harsh racking breaths, he runs, fingers finding his own close call, a thin slice on his neck where a knife had gotten him. He shoves his arm down to keep from digging at it in his anxiety. Each new thought about what could have happened to him causes a wave of anxiety to roll through him, giving the effect of a churning sea contained within his stomach entirely of his own making. He's rounding a corner when he sees him, hunched over in pain but uninjured, whole.

Jacket floats with relief for a moment, and when he comes back down he's several steps closer, enough to see the relieved glint in Beard's eye at seeing him.

"Hey" he says, with the playful kind of cool only a man incapacitated with a blow to the gut who managed to survive could have. Jacket knows that's what happened, can smell the acrid tang of bile on him even from here, but that doesn't stop him from drawing closer.

His hands feel detached from him, tracking slower than he thinks he's moving them, but when they connect with Beard's chest they snap back into place where they belong. He's grateful for that, as the sturdy reliability of Beard grounds him more. He isn't sure how to express the solace it brings him to know that he's okay, has never had to do such a thing before, so he settles for tilting them both to the ground. Beard wheezes a little when his back hits the ground but he's smiling and his body is languid.

Jacket's quick to straddle him, drifting his fingers over Beard's stomach, his shirt trailing up with them. His fingers feather around the red welt where the rifle butt got him, outlining it with something like reverence. Beard looks at him a little nervously then, unused to the focus of someone not looking for answers he can't provide.

"Gonna bruise like a motherfucker, I'm sure." Jacket decides then that they're just going to have to make the best of the time they have before the healing starts.

His hands are on both of their belt buckles when Beard stops him.

"No time for that," he says, shifting to grind his thigh against Jacket's clothed cock. The sensation is muffled through the fabric of his fatigues and he falls into it, literally, as his hips slope down to slot against Beard's. His whole body follows, forearms boxing his head in, careful not to pull at his hair where it's splayed out under him. His arms cast shadows over Beard's tanned face and he thinks about fireplace grates, keeping the flame in and the wind out. There's no wind now, the air stagnant this deep in the jungle, but he means to shelter him and his spark all the same.

Jacket's to revved up for anything approaching finesse, but Beard's careful swivels of his hip helps him set a rhythm fast enough to satisfy but slow enough to avoid friction burns. Fully clothed like this, Jacket feels younger, like he's nineteen again, and just as excitable. Time has passed since then, dragged its weight over both of them leaving them hunched with the reality of it. But they're both on the ground now, writhing against each other and moaning unrestrictedly, and posture and policy has slid to the wayside.

Beard's got hands gripping his sides, nails jagged from chewing digging into the pudge there, and he can't think of a better place for them to be. The burning metal in his gut only grows with every little high pitched groan that falls out of Beard's mouth, and he knows Beard's getting close when his clawing turns to kneading, sending waves of relief through the tired muscle of his lower back.

Beard comes apart beneath him, twisting hard to grind up against him and jerking. Jacket peers down at his face as he comes, biting his lip and reddening with a heavy "Ohh" as he shudders to stillness, sending electricity coursing through Jacket, flooding his chest and head with sparks bouncing off of his insides as he comes too, wincing at the feel of his own spunk flooding his boxers making his already sweaty pants slimier. As he gets off of Beard to readjust, a call comes through the radio to confirm their whereabouts and safety, crackling loudly in the quiet of the night. Beard fumbles around to respond, and Jacket busies himself with the as of yet unmarked expanse of his collarbone, digging his fingers contently into his soft chest hair.

"This is, mm, Fred, we've met up again, at the mall and, nn, we'll take our own bus back."


End file.
